


Repeat String

by likeafouralarmfire



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 14:58:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10363035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeafouralarmfire/pseuds/likeafouralarmfire
Summary: Shaw doesn't do repeats. At least she didn't, until you.





	

_If we do this,_ breathes Shaw into your neck, _it’s a one-time thing. I don’t do repeat performances._

You can’t believe this is happening. You’ve wanted Shaw from the minute you saw her walk through that hotel room door, but when you proposed a more interesting way to pass your remaining nine hours in this CIA safe house, you never dreamed she’d take you up on it. 

And yet, here you are. 

For the past few minutes--or maybe hours; you’ve lost track--she’s been kissing you in a way you can only describe as vindictive. Now your mouth is raw, your whole body is humming, and you can hardly keep your knees from giving out.

_I’m bored, and this seems to be shutting you up,_ she adds, after another searing kiss. _Don’t make this into something it’s not._

_Whatever you say, sweetie_.

The moment she slides her hand under your shirt, it occurs to you that this might be a mistake. Once she’s touching your bare skin you realize how much you really want her--and that you won’t stop wanting her after this is finished. 

_No repeat performances,_ you remind yourself, _Enjoy it._

You’ve slept with a lot of women--one-offs, mostly--all over the world. But no one has ever unraveled you so quickly.

Shaw is precise--skillful--as she is in everything she does. Zip ties well placed. The way she seems to know exactly how to touch you is unsettling: she finds every _right there_  in your body and liquefies your thoughts. She’s pulling everything deep in you to the surface: sweat, sounds, pain to the point of pleasure--or maybe pleasure to the point of pain. For the first time with any woman, you completely surrender to her.

And yet she seems so detached, even as you’re tying her to the chair, as you’re sliding your hand into her pants, that you aren’t sure she really wants this until the moment you begin to touch her.

_Well, well,_ you whisper, unable to help yourself. _Not so cool after all._

_Keep talking and I'll make you sorry._

She closes her eyes and sighs as your fingers sink inside her. The sigh is almost tender, as if you were real lovers. As if she would rather kiss you than kill you.

For the first and last time, you have her where you want her and you’re going to make the most of it--for as long as you can make it last.

 

* * *

 

For over thirty years you lived without the Machine. And yet, after only a few weeks of becoming Hers, when Harold traps you in a cage without Her, you feel Her absence like the loss of one of your senses.

As bitter as this is to swallow, the books surrounding you do help--not something you’d tell Harold, of course. A well-written book, like well-written code, is deliberate, discrete, an imprint of intentionality, as individual as a fingerprint.

You leaf through them in silence as your mind replays another set of fingerprints, distinct and intentional, marking patterns onto your skin. You’re not prone to thinking about the women you’ve slept with, but then again, none of them has ever decked you after the fact. And more to the point, no woman has ever brought you so thoroughly into your own body, which felt disposable before.

Like it or not, Shaw has made an imprint on you.

 

* * *

 

Despite your flirting habit, you did take Shaw at her word on the no-repeat-performances thing. So when she drags you back to her apartment after a mission, you’re not sure what she wants until she shoves you onto her bed and begins to tug off your shirt.

_I thought you were a hit-it-and-quit-it kind of girl,_ you tease her, raising your arms above your head to help.

_Do you want this or not?_ She unfastens your bra before taking off her tank top.

It’s rhetorical. Of course she knows you want her. 

Once she’s tossed her shirt, then her bra and pants and underwear, to the floor, you look down the length of her in awe. In the safe house, you’d kept most of your clothes on; now, for the first time, you can read the story of her body: the softness and the muscle beneath, the bruises, the scars. She sees you staring and shakes her head like she can’t believe she’s doing this.

_You gonna take your pants off or what?_

You lift your hips suggestively. Rolling her eyes, she pulls off your pants herself and pushes you back onto the bed.

No zip ties this time. Just her and you, skin on skin, mouth on mouth, mouth on skin. It’s not gentle--you’ll both come away with bruises and scratches from your hands, her hands, the wall, your teeth--but it feels undeniable. Not like the safe house, which feels miles away and not-quite-real, a fever dream that broke the second she punched you in the face. That night could have been an accident; tonight is on purpose. 

You don’t know what changed, but you’re glad it did.

_Uh-uh,_ she snaps, pushing you away, when you reach for her afterward. You expected as much. But you didn’t expect her to hop up that minute, gather your clothes from the floor and dump them unceremoniously into your lap. She’s already pulling on her pants, grabbing one of the shirts scattered around the bed.

_What, no cigarette?_ you deadpan. Shaw rolls her eyes.

_Get dressed,_ she says. _I don’t do sleepovers._

_We should do this again sometime,_ you say, and begin to put your clothes back on. Shaw smirks in spite of herself. 

_We’ll see._

 

* * *

 

Shaw is a skilled fighter. An impressive shot. Great in bed. And, as it turns out, great company.

After a while, she forgets to pretend she hates you. She tells you stories about her childhood, about missions with Northern Lights, even about her old partner Cole. She insists she hates cuddling, but after the last time, she let you curl around her back and began to tell you the stories of her scars.

Tonight, at her place, you trace the constellations on her back, trying to choose a scar that looks like it has a good long story.

_Root,_ she says, warningly.

_Just wondering which of these to ask you about_ , you say. She sighs and rolls over to face you. Her finger slides a lock of hair behind your ear, and she tilts your chin to look into your eyes.

_Hey. We can’t keep doing this if you’re going to catch feelings. I don’t work that way._

_Can’t a girl have a moment to enjoy her afterglow?_ You smile.  _You did quite a number on me._

Sameen snorts, not bothering to hide her grin. Then she closes her eyes and gathers herself.

_I don’t do feelings_ , she says, not unkindly. _You know that. I just--I don’t want things to get weird._

_Why, Sameen,_ you say, in mock surprise, _does this mean you care about me?_

_I don’t want you running away with the wrong idea, that’s all. And--okay--I guess I don’t want you to get hurt. Happy?_

_Yes,_ you say, sincerely, and kiss her cheeks. She looks mildly irritated and mildly worried. You’ll take it.

 

* * *

 

The night it begins to change, you think, is the first night you’re back in town after the cochlear implant.

Shaw comes over to check your wounds. She’s got a bag with her, and when she opens it, you see a drugstore’s worth of dressings. Nestled among them is a small bottle of whisky; underneath is what looks suspiciously like a change of clothes.

_Finch’s orders_ , she says. _72 hours. Time to change the dressings._

Harold didn’t send her. She must know you know--it’s one of your games--but for once, you don’t pursue it.

She takes off your shirt, carefully, and begins to peel back the bandage over your bullet wound. This she cleans carefully and re-bandages, shaking her head as if your ineptitude annoys her.

_That should be okay,_ she says, running her finger around the perimeter.

Then she walks behind you and gingerly touches your temple, smoothing the downy hair behind your ear.

_Can I?_ Her finger traces the edge of the bandage.

_Of course._

She touches you with a kind of gentleness you’ve never felt from her. You can’t hear the adhesive peeling away--your deafness in that ear is still a novelty to you, an absence you couldn’t have imagined before--but you can feel the warmth of her hand, the cold sting of exposure.

_Looks like it’s healing all right,_ she says as she gently cleans off the site. 

_Thanks, doc._   _Kiss it better?_

A long silence, a pause, before she finishes sealing the bandage and places her hand on your shoulder. 

_It was... bad, wasn’t it?_ she says.

_Not really. The good doctor gave me plenty of lidocaine._

_I didn’t mean him. I meant--her. Control._

_Oh._ The sensation of the scalpel in your skin comes back to you in shivering clarity.

_Root._ Her hand tightens on your shoulder, almost painfully. 

_It’s okay,_ you begin to say, before Sameen bends to place a kiss on your neck, just below the bandage. 

Neither of you says anything else for a while.

Afterwards, while you’re catching your breath, she checks your bandages again, her fingers warm against your clammy skin. Once she’s satisfied, she settles back down and pulls the sheets over both of you.

_I’ll check you again in the morning,_ she says, as though her staying over were nothing out of the ordinary.

_I’ll be here,_ you whisper, flushed and grinning.

 

* * *

 

With Her in your ear, you’re unstoppable--and something close to happy. You’ve never felt more filled with purpose. You’re in love. 

And as an added bonus, you’ve never had a better sex life. Missions get Sameen hot: the hotter the mission, the faster she finds a way to get you alone. It’s not why you invite her along--She insists on your bringing Shaw with you--but it’s a great job perk.

When Samaritan comes online and you lose Her again, lose your place and your anchor, the silence leaves an unimaginable gulf. And yet, it’s in that absence that you realize how much of your happiness, your glow, your purpose, came from falling in love not with Her, but with Sameen.

It’s hard to separate your love for one from your love for the other. The two have a lot in common, after all: their understanding of and faith in you, the way they demand as much as you can give. Like the Machine, Shaw has unrelenting purpose, driven by principle and not by id, ego, or wavering emotions. You’ve never met anyone more deliberate, anyone with clearer direction. Apart from Hers, Shaw’s is the most beautiful code you’ve ever seen.

Sameen won’t ever love you like you love her. It’s not in her code--and painful as it may be, you wouldn’t change that code for the world.

 

* * *

 

 

The night it really changes-- _really_ really--is the first time Sameen sees you again after your close call in the hotel.

She drags you back to her place--her new place, which is furnished and foreign--and won’t take no. She pours each of you two fingers of bourbon, knocks hers back in one go, and waits for you to do the same. Then she grabs your glass out of your hand, slams it back onto the table, and starts kissing you for all she’s worth.

Sameen has kissed you in anger and frustration, in lust and in boredom. Whatever this is, it’s not that. Her kisses tonight are exploratory, appreciative, familiar, all at once. It occurs to you that you really, really enjoy kissing her--just kissing her, not as a means to an end, but as an end in itself. You kiss and kiss and kiss her and can’t get enough.

_You could have died,_ she whispers between kisses, holding your face inches from hers.

_This is war. Any of us could die at any time._

She shakes her head. _That doesn’t work so well for me anymore._

_Your concern is so sweet,_  you say, trying to keep your voice from shaking. You slide one hand underneath her shirt, slide your fingers over her ribs. _Would you like a reward?_

Sameen closes her eyes and lays her hand on yours, stilling your path.

_Tomorrow,_ she says. _You’re going to stay with me for a little while, okay?_

_How long?_

_I don’t know. A few days, maybe._

Somewhere in the middle of the night, you wake to find her hand draped over your ribs. She’s still fast asleep, and you’re guessing she didn’t mean to end up here--but here she is, so close to your heart you feel the heat of her touch branching into your bones. In all the time She’s been silent, you’ve never felt as safe as you do at this moment, with Sameen’s hand on your chest.

 

* * *

 

Every night you stay with her, it begins the same way. Once you’re alone together, once the door is locked behind you, she starts to kiss you with slow, deliberate pleasure. Then she maneuvers you into bed, or against a wall, and begins to escalate.

Sometimes she presses a bullet wound--pressing each other’s wounds is a game you’ve had for a long time, to intensify the pleasure--but now she presses with a careful, gentle precision.

Her lips, her tongue, make their way down your body in now-familiar paths. Then she takes you to the precipice with almost agonizing slowness, and keeps you at that threshold until the moment it becomes unbearable.

You fall asleep at opposite ends of the bed, but you find your way together in the night. When she’s sleeping, Sameen has a warm sweet smell; her skin is hot and her breath is heavy. There’s something childlike about the way she sleeps that makes you tender, protective, careless. Every night, you barely sleep for fear that tonight will be the last night you get to be close to her.

_I love you,_ you whisper under your breath when you’re sure she’s fast asleep. _I love you. I love you._

 

* * *

 

_Are you sleeping with anyone else?_ you ask Sameen one morning, after you’ve brought her a breakfast sandwich from the coffee shop down the street.

Her chewing slows.

_Why do you want to know?_

_Curious. Tomas and all._

Sameen rolls her eyes. _You promised me you wouldn’t catch feelings._

_You can’t begrudge me just a little jealousy, Sameen. In my defense, I’ve never asked anything more from you than you give freely._

She looks away, then looks back with almost hostile intensity.

_No. I was when we first started hooking up, but--not anymore. Happy?_

In response, you back her up against the wall and press on her chest until her heart leaps against your skin.

_Yes,_ you whisper, before kissing her, again and again.

That night, you don’t know--you couldn’t possibly know--that it will be nearly a year until you’ll get another chance to kiss her.

 

* * *

 

You’ve been alone so often that it should feel like home; it always did before. But after the stock exchange, after losing her for what may be forever, you feel lonelier than you have ever, ever felt in your life. For the first time, you feel that your life is truly a bargaining chip. Your life matters to Her. But more importantly, your life matters to _her:_ so much that she sacrificed all she had to keep you alive.

When the Machine brings Sameen back to you, your relief and happiness infuse every cell in your body. You’re incandescent with joy at the sheer physical pleasure of having her close to you. Sameen has brought you into your animal self--and just for tonight, you are beyond the call of the future.

 

* * *

 

Tonight, as you’re tucked together in bed, she touches your face, your chest, your throat; she strokes your hair and touches your waist and kisses you over and over.

_I didn’t think I would ever touch you again,_ she says.

Everything in you aches. You’re trembling so hard you can’t speak. Nothing in the world is as it should be--nothing but this. She’s here, and for the next few hours, nothing else matters.

_Not for real, anyway._ She smiles, rests a hand on your cheek. _I touched you a lot in the simulations._

In spite of yourself, you flush like a teenager. _Touched me how?_

_Like this,_ she says, cradling your face with one hand as the other slides over your hip, between your thighs. She kisses the corners of your mouth, your eyelids, and pulls you closer. _Like this. Like this._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick addendum to thank you guys for your support, especially the lovely comments! :)


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